stood, put his shoes on, stepped to the window and stared at the leaves gushing by like the surf rolling in. He spun to the doorway and walked into his sister's bedroom, where the blood trail had started. "Debra, who did this to you? Was it Meeker?"
His phone rang once more.
It was Voice A saying, "Who is that?"
"Are you asking about Meeker? I think he's the man who killed my sister."
"Who is that?"
"Debra is another voice you jabber with."
"The kid's over there."
"Tell her to give me a call."
"The girl's…"
He hung up again.
In the dimness of 1529 Baldwin Boulevard, he carefully walked the pattern of his sister's killing. Cops said it had started in her bedroom, beside the nightstand, and then she was dragged struggling into the kitchen. Drawers were open but no knives were taken or used. Then out the back door into the yard, where she was left beneath the willows.
At his chorus recital his class had sung "Riding in the Buggy," "Frere Jacques," "There's a Hole in the Bucket," and "Sweep, Sweep Away." His parents were there in the second row, Ma snapping pictures every three minutes. Always out of focus or cutting everyone's head off. Afterwards they'd stopped off for ice cream, not even eating in the parlor five minutes down the road. Bringing back sundaes, the mint chocolate chip for Deb. They'd only been out of the house about an hour and a half, but it was more than long enough.
The voices again, loud but far away, sounding like they might be in the back yard. Jenks' swallowed a moan as he heard his sister shouting, "Give it back! It's mine! Give it to me!"
And then A asking, "Who is that?"
So here it was, finally, what he'd been waiting for most of his life. The chance to find out exactly what had happened while he'd been Frere Jacques- ing his little ass off.
Jenks tore open the door and stumbled against the wrought-iron railing somebody had put in to replace his father's trellis. The moonlight lashed across his eyes like a whip. He flung an arm out and went down to one knee, barreling through the evergreen shrubs. Pain shot up his thigh but the icy breeze felt good against his throat.
A spot of milky whiteness glowed near the base of the back fence. Jenks stepped over wondering, Is this it? Is this how she appears to me now?
He didn't call Debra's name as he moved closer to the patch of ivory glimmer that burned in the dark. Jenks stooped and reached out.
It was a pair of girl's panties.
From the other side of the fence, Voice A whispered to him, "The kid's over there."
Jenks spun and nearly flopped over Tracy's body, half-hidden in the leaves.
She was laid out in the same position that his sister had been. Legs spread wide and left knee bent and propped, the shattered nose still leaking blood. Blouse open and her full breasts covered with scratches and bruises. Her forehead had split open and steaming fluids slithered along the furrows of her brow. She looked, perhaps, a tad less forlorn than she had earlier.
Jenks brought the back of his hand up to cover his mouth and swallowed repeatedly while the moans crept in his chest. A surge of nausea swept through him and a small noise of defeat escaped him.
He reached for his cell phone, but his pocket was empty. He must've lost it hitting that goddamn railing, floundering around in the blackness. He was still holding Tracy's panties in his other hand and tossed them away in disgust.
Had they lured her back here somehow or had she finally run away from her parents as she'd promised? It was a two-hour drive at least. Was the boyfriend who liked horror movies creeping along Potters Avenue now, a grease monkey who'd nabbed her off the Hudson and made a break for it? Were the roaming bands of Satanists marching through the neighborhood?
Now, voices from the bushes, as if they were crouching there together. "The girl's dead. Don't."
" Shh …he'll hear you."
Jenks wheeled and parted the branches, hoping to grab hold of someone, anyone, perhaps a piece
His phone rang once more.
It was Voice A saying, "Who is that?"
"Are you asking about Meeker? I think he's the man who killed my sister."
"Who is that?"
"Debra is another voice you jabber with."
"The kid's over there."
"Tell her to give me a call."
"The girl's…"
He hung up again.
In the dimness of 1529 Baldwin Boulevard, he carefully walked the pattern of his sister's killing. Cops said it had started in her bedroom, beside the nightstand, and then she was dragged struggling into the kitchen. Drawers were open but no knives were taken or used. Then out the back door into the yard, where she was left beneath the willows.
At his chorus recital his class had sung "Riding in the Buggy," "Frere Jacques," "There's a Hole in the Bucket," and "Sweep, Sweep Away." His parents were there in the second row, Ma snapping pictures every three minutes. Always out of focus or cutting everyone's head off. Afterwards they'd stopped off for ice cream, not even eating in the parlor five minutes down the road. Bringing back sundaes, the mint chocolate chip for Deb. They'd only been out of the house about an hour and a half, but it was more than long enough.
The voices again, loud but far away, sounding like they might be in the back yard. Jenks' swallowed a moan as he heard his sister shouting, "Give it back! It's mine! Give it to me!"
And then A asking, "Who is that?"
So here it was, finally, what he'd been waiting for most of his life. The chance to find out exactly what had happened while he'd been Frere Jacques- ing his little ass off.
Jenks tore open the door and stumbled against the wrought-iron railing somebody had put in to replace his father's trellis. The moonlight lashed across his eyes like a whip. He flung an arm out and went down to one knee, barreling through the evergreen shrubs. Pain shot up his thigh but the icy breeze felt good against his throat.
A spot of milky whiteness glowed near the base of the back fence. Jenks stepped over wondering, Is this it? Is this how she appears to me now?
He didn't call Debra's name as he moved closer to the patch of ivory glimmer that burned in the dark. Jenks stooped and reached out.
It was a pair of girl's panties.
From the other side of the fence, Voice A whispered to him, "The kid's over there."
Jenks spun and nearly flopped over Tracy's body, half-hidden in the leaves.
She was laid out in the same position that his sister had been. Legs spread wide and left knee bent and propped, the shattered nose still leaking blood. Blouse open and her full breasts covered with scratches and bruises. Her forehead had split open and steaming fluids slithered along the furrows of her brow. She looked, perhaps, a tad less forlorn than she had earlier.
Jenks brought the back of his hand up to cover his mouth and swallowed repeatedly while the moans crept in his chest. A surge of nausea swept through him and a small noise of defeat escaped him.
He reached for his cell phone, but his pocket was empty. He must've lost it hitting that goddamn railing, floundering around in the blackness. He was still holding Tracy's panties in his other hand and tossed them away in disgust.
Had they lured her back here somehow or had she finally run away from her parents as she'd promised? It was a two-hour drive at least. Was the boyfriend who liked horror movies creeping along Potters Avenue now, a grease monkey who'd nabbed her off the Hudson and made a break for it? Were the roaming bands of Satanists marching through the neighborhood?
Now, voices from the bushes, as if they were crouching there together. "The girl's dead. Don't."
" Shh …he'll hear you."
Jenks wheeled and parted the branches, hoping to grab hold of someone, anyone, perhaps a piece
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